


Mount Massive Asylum

by BlueEyedArcher



Series: Outlast One-Shots [19]
Category: Outlast (Video Games)
Genre: Cat and Mouse, Chris is a Security Guard, Depression, Dr. Eddie Gluskin, Dr. Richard Trager, Fluff and Angst, Hide and Seek, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Lisa is dead, M/M, Miles is a Patient, Miles likes to play hide and seek with Chris, Mount Massive Psychiatric Hospital, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Restraints, Reverse Asylum AU, Schizophrenia, Suicide Attempt, Waylon is a Patient, sedatives
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-27
Updated: 2017-11-28
Packaged: 2019-01-22 21:50:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 14,410
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12491604
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlueEyedArcher/pseuds/BlueEyedArcher
Summary: Waylon Park is a Patient at Mount Massive Asylum. But the hospital isn't like the one you know it to be. For the events at Mount Massive Asylum have all been a lie. A delusion within the Techie's mind. Lisa is dead and Waylon is driven mad with grief. The variants he fears are really just the Doctors who have been trying to help him heal and cure this insanity driving him mad. But he's not alone. Miles is also a patient here and the supposed Walrider is an imaginary entity that haunts the journalist. The two feed each other's delusions and it continues to get worse.





	1. Mount Massive Hospital

**Author's Note:**

> I just wanted to write a Reverse Asylum AU one-shot.
> 
> It ended up becoming a multi-chapter story.

“Lisa? Lisa!” The words fell from the blonde male’s lips, quivering with worry as his bare feet padded down the hall. He had a limp from an old injury to his right leg. Caused by a fall or more like an attempted suicide. Jumping down an elevator shaft during a schizophrenic episode. He managed to pry the shaft open between floors, claiming he was being chased by somebody when he was questioned. The man was adorn in tan patient’s garb. Some of the patients didn’t respond well to the color white as part of the clothing and more neutral or earthy tones were found to help calm them. On the front of the clothing was an identifier number. The same number was on a wristband that adorned one of their wrists. Some of them had them in other places such as anklets or the occasional had it as a collar type. Those who were commonly restrained, the collar form made it easier to restrain without it getting in the way.

 

The male clutched at a ring that hung from a chain at his neck, a wedding ring wound between his fingers. He wasn’t a risk to hang himself or choke himself. His way of going out was always jumping. All the doctors knew this within the hospital which was why the male was kept on the first floor and denied access to any floor above that, unless properly restrained or medicated. Today the blonde was searching from room to room, looking in through the slit of fire rated glass windows before moving on to the next, glancing at the occupants or equipment held within. One of the doorways he came across was open and as he turned into it to search for the female he spoke of, he bumped right into a large figure.

 

A tall broad shouldered male with raven hair slicked back. The sides of his head were shaved neatly and cleanly and he had no facial hair. Deep blue eyes looked down upon his patient fondly as he placed his hands on either side of the male’s shoulders. It was a slow and cautious gesture. “Waylon? What are you doing out of your room?” His voice was soft, silky and pleasant. His presence was welcoming and caring. Yet Waylon was afraid of him. The doctor wore all white as was part of the uniform for his title. The lab coat always made him uneasy. His eyes flitted over the identification badge clipped to the coat, it was also an access key card that allowed him to enter the other levels of the hospital. The name read **_Dr. Edward Gluskin._ ** He was most commonly referred to as Eddie or Dr. Gluskin.

 

Waylon’s pale blue eyes were tired and darkly rimmed with sleeplessness but he remained restless and jumpy. Most specifically around the man who was supposedly his doctor. Those weary orbs skittered from the identification badge to the man’s face once more, taking in the ‘ _scarring’_ or what Waylon’s broken mind mistook for scarring. It was just a birthmark, skin a little darker in pigment then the rest of Eddie’s face, mostly around his right eye and upper cheek bone. It was just one big splotch and a couple smaller splotches. Waylon’s mind saw it as burns or blood crusted to flesh. He didn’t see the warmth in the man’s gaze and his careful collected tone was mistaken for being strong and sharp. He stepped back away from the doctor and shook his head. “Where’s Lisa? I have to find Lisa. I need to talk to my wife!”

 

Eddie let out a slow breath, his expression fallen with empathy for the man. ‘ _And the cycle continues.’_ He thought to himself, letting go of Waylon’s shoulders and giving him a little bit of space to keep him calm and not to spook him too much. The man was going through a continued cycle of episodes that they were trying to break him out of but they only seemed to get worse as time goes on.

 

Waylon Park, Patient 2536 had been a resident of Mount Massive Hospital  for nearly an entire year after being brought to the hospital by police. The man had been the sole survivor of a car accident while driving through the mountains during a bad snow storm. His wife and son had been killed in the accident and Waylon suffered a head injury that left him unconscious for several weeks. When he came to, he wasn’t the same. He refused to believe the death of his wife and son. Furthermore, he insisted he had more than one son and that there had been a baby with them. There was no evidence of the Park family ever having more than one son. The closest account of this was a slight pregnancy scare due to an incorrect reading with an expired pregnancy test. Lisa Park had made a medical appointment to have that test double checked properly and concluded she was in fact, not pregnant.

 

Despite being shown the records, birth and death certificates and even photos of the accident and the bodies of his family, Waylon refused to believe any of it as true and demanded his family be returned to him. These actions increased into bouts of violence and attempted suicide by jumping off of the roof of his home in the following months. He had self-destructive tendencies and was soon forcefully committed by authorities to the hospital after his latest stunt. Since he had attempted two more times to jump down an elevator shaft, the second and most recent was successful in falling but resulted in a severe compound fracture in his right leg which led to his now permanent limp.

 

His delusions had worsened since coming in contact with another patient, one Miles Upshur. An investigative journalist that did several trips into war rampant zones in Afghanistan. The latest resulting in severe PTSD and Schizophrenia. He started running into dangerous situations back here in the states and was fired by his employer. He moved from his home in DC to Colorado on a whim and claimed he was chasing the truth and soon after was discovered ‘ _running away from’_ a creature he dubbed The Walrider. A shadowy being that haunts him and follows him. His delusions worsened to the point he claims to be possessed by the entity and often blacks out for hours at a time.

 

It was noted that both Waylon Park and Miles Upshur’s conditions worsened and relapsed after coming in contact with each other for a period of two months. At first it was suspected they were improving and socializing which had not been seen before as both appeared to be loners and shut ins. Suddenly they started talking and quickly became inseparable but then their episodes became more frequent and they started talking about the same delusions and conspiracies about the staff and the hospital itself.

 

They were both forced into isolation and are directed to be separated at all times. Contact between the two is denied. Since the separation of Miles and Waylon, their therapy options have been changed and medical treatment had been increased. Their medications have gotten stronger but no change in condition seems to be present. Dr. Gluskin was deeply worried about them.

 

Dr. Richard Trager was in charge of Miles and he had recently been forced to engage in surgery on the brunette journalist. Since isolating him from Waylon, he had developed a terrible habit of self-mutilation, causing damage to his fingers and hands through scratching or biting, peeling skin off and digging at the wounds. This was assumed he was distressed at the loss of companionship or depressed. The damage was so severe that three of his fingers had to be amputated to prevent infection and the others had managed to be saved. Since, he spouts claims that Dr. Trager cut his fingers off and is often heard cursing him and demanding he be given them back.

 

Waylon has returned to demanding to see his family which previously had been overlooked during his time with Miles. Eddie sighed and stepped towards the blonde male who quickly hobbled back, nearly tripping over his own feet in the process. “Waylon, I think we need to have a nice little talk in my office. I’ll make you a cup of tea. How does that sound?” He offered, hoping the male would simply give in and agree.

 

Eddie would have no such luck as Waylon quickly became defensive about it, shaking his head. “No! I want to talk to my wife! You can’t keep her from me.” He raised his voice, nearly screaming at this point. His eyes wide and wild as another violent episode was coming on. His vision blurred with shadows and his view of the hospital was twisted and distorted. It was seen more of like a battle ground then a peaceful place of healing. As two nurses rushed around the corner to see what the sudden outburst was about, Dr. Gluskin held up a hand to stop them. Waylon’s head jerked to face their direction and he didn’t see nice and homely care workers. They were wild variants who wanted nothing more than to hurt him. To drag him away into the depths of this hell hole and kill him. Eddie knew this.

 

He had read Waylon’s therapy journal. He had seen the sorts of things he wrote about. The horrors he saw and the strangest part of it, was Miles’ journal was much the same. They appeared to write it as if cataloging some form of evidence about events they encounter in their everyday routine. Claiming the other doctors to be monsters or creatures from failed experiments all trying to silence them from getting the truth out to the public. It was disturbing. Some of the things they see and they both see some form of it which is even more troublesome.

 

The personnel lingered a few doors down the hallway, keeping their distance but remaining ready and prepared to intervene should the small blonde male get out of control. “Waylon, you have to listen to me. Lisa is dead. She passed away and so did your son. You know this Waylon. You’ve always known this. You were there when it happened. Remember? The car accident?” His words were careful and calm, he held his hands up as he slowly approached but Waylon felt cornered and desperate.

 

Tears brimmed at the corners of his eyes as he was told this. He continued to deny the truth, shaking his head fervently as he barked out. “Lies!” He lunged at Eddie, trying to push him away. Eddie allowed him that, backing off a little bit but still remaining in reach should he need to intervene. Waylon winced, his fingers curling into his hair and gripping at the blonde locks tightly. Pulling on them as his features twisted up into distress. A pain jolting through his skull with a strong migraine. This was common when going through one of these episodes. The head injury he sustained in the accident would start to throb with a phantom pain and he would spiral out of control soon after. It was predictable in a way but Waylon’s behavior during it was in no way predictable. After all, during one of these episodes, he pried open and jumped down an elevator shaft.

 

Waylon raked his fingernails across his skin, leaving crimson tracks in their wake on his scalp. Eddie’s jaw set, anticipating Waylon to lash out soon as he always does and just like clockwork, Waylon did. Jolting forward with a scream of anger but it wasn’t at Eddie. This time he was bolting towards the end of the hallway where the nurses’ were waiting. Their eyes widened suddenly as the male rushed up towards one but Eddie was faster. Snatching up one of Waylon’s wrists and tugging him back.

 

The jerking motion caused a popping sound from his shoulder that came out with a choked gasp. Eddie’s other arm looped under Waylon’s free arm and hooked over his shoulder. He did the same with his other arm and wove his fingers together behind his head. Forcing Waylon’s head down at a painful angle and pulling his body back, controlling him. Forcing him to rely on his feet to stay standing, keeping the blonde on his tiptoes, using his strength and immense height to his advantage.

 

The nurses approached cautiously encase Waylon slipped from Eddie’s grasp, which has yet to happen but there was a first for everything. One of the nurses was already preparing a set of restraints which they carried on them like police do handcuffs, only these were made of padded leather. The other had already prepared a sedative that would calm the male down and possibly knock him out. Eddie tightened his hold on Waylon who only growled and struggled harder, screaming a litany of offensive and derogatory curses at them. Trying to get away but the attempts were futile as the sedative was pushed into his system. The nurses backed away quickly and waited while the struggles started to decreased and the blonde slowly went limp in Eddie’s arms. His eyes partially open, pale orbs distant and dewy as a few tears finally fell. Eddie lowered his body to the ground and carefully let go of him, positioning his body so he was sitting back against the wall.

 

Waylon sniffled, his hands resting on either side of his body as he cried. Dr. Gluskin didn’t know if this was Waylon coming to terms with the truth at the end of each of these episodes or if he was just accepting what he thought was a lie or just the fact he may never see his wife and son(s) again because he was never getting out of this place. He didn’t know and the therapy journals never told him that part of Waylon’s thoughts. That part of his sickness. Either way, it was hard to watch every time. He offered a tissue from a small pocket sized pack he carries around with him in his lab coat and dabbed the tears out of his face and wiping at his nose. Waylon seemed docile and distant, the curses from earlier dwindled to sniffles and silent quivering breaths. Occasionally the name of his wife would fall from his lips but that was always the end of the outburst. At least for a few more days before the cycle continues once again.


	2. Better

After the latest outburst, Eddie found it best to keep Waylon sedated or bedridden for the next couple days while they went over his medications and treatment plan to find a better way of handling his issues. He sympathized with the blonde male, he really did. Coming from a broken home and a family that was one only by name, he knew what it was like to lose those most precious or yearn for something he could no longer have. Knowing that pain is what made him enter this profession. To be able to help people who were hurting and ease the hurt. Not just a physical hurt, but the one deep down inside people. To help burn away the shadows and shed light on the truth. To free his patients from the issues that trapped them and forced them into a life of isolation and torment.

 

He spent most of the first day looking over past medical records for the male, glossing over every last detail but he couldn’t think of anything they were missing that might help. Tired and annoyed, he set the files aside and went for a walk, leaving his office and heading down to the lower level of the hospital where his patient was. The room was like any other hospital room, there was a bed on wheels and a heart monitor beside it. An i.v drip was set up, the tube leading down to the needle slipped into the inside elbow of Waylon’s arm. His eyes were closed, the lights were off but the pale evening light of a stormy winter afternoon cast shadows over his patient’s body.

 

Since being committed to Mount Massive, Waylon had lost a considerable amount of weight. He looked frail and sickly against the starched white sheets of the bed. His blonde locks were fading to a lighter almost platinum color as they slowly transitioned to white in places from stress. The skin around his limbs seemed tight and pale, ashen in places. The dark bags beneath his eyes were more noticeable, accented by the shadows that nestled against the hollow dips in his facial features. He looked far too small in the bed and if it wasn’t for the slow monotonous beeping of the heart monitor, he could almost mistake the male for dead. That was not a thought that Eddie wanted to entertain despite the fact it was a reality his patient desperately sought out. Which confused Dr. Gluskin, now that he thought about it.

 

He made his way over to the chair beside the bed and sat down, the old wooden frame creaking under his weight as he settled in as comfortably as he could. He noted Waylon’s wrists were restrained to the sides of the bed, his ankles as well. He spotted the padded leather straps peeking out from beneath the thin blankets. He reached inside his coat pocket and withdrew the small black journal that his patient used for therapeutic expression. Many of the patients were assured they would be permitted privacy when writing inside these books but the doctors often used the statement that since their patient’s weren’t of sound mind, their privacy was overlooked and they would read the journals anyway. Eddie wasn’t a fan of that sort of deceitful practice but at this point, with no signs of reform, Eddie was forced to break that promise of privacy to see what was really going on inside of Waylon’s head. It was just as puzzling to read about and made no sense just like Waylon’s attempts as suicide.

 

He opened up one of the pages and began reading where he left off. He wasn’t very far into the journal since he didn’t have that much time alone to read it, but he was learning from each little entry.

 

 

 

_Date: **xx-xx-xxxx**_

 

_Lisa,_

_I’m so sorry baby. I know I promised to return to you, but I can’t seem to find my way out of this accursed place. I’ve tried...I’ve tried so damn hard to leave. These men- These Monsters keep catching me at every turn._

_I know that if i don’t get out of here….you’ll find me. I know you’ll come for me. God Lisa, please don’t let them take me. If you ever find this, you’ll know. You’ll know what happened and I know you’ll make these fuckers pay._

_I love you Lisa. I love you so much. Please.._

_Please take care of the boys for me._

 

 

 

Eddie followed every line with his fingertips as he read them aloud, a soft whisper but it sounded loud on his lips, interrupted only by the beep of the monitor. He glanced over the page, rereading it a second time silently to himself before leaning back and looking over at his patient. Noticing the slow rise and fall of his chest, a very subtle motion but it was there and it was just a little bit comforting to him. “If you’re hoping she’s still out there, why do you want to die so badly Waylon? You search for your wife relentlessly but you do things, dangerous things with the intent to end your life. It doesn’t make sense.”

 

He ran his fingers through his hair, fixing the slightly lopsided black strands that were disrupted by his momentary reading posture, a little hunched forward. His eyes glossing over the words in the journal for a minute more before turning the page.

 

 

 

_Date: **xx-xx-xxxx** _

 

_It hurts. Oh god it hurts so much. I can’t stand it here anymore. Lisa please..make it stop. Make it end. I don’t want to be here anymore. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I failed you. I failed the boys. Fuck! I even failed myself. I can’t stand it._

_The screams. They're everywhere. The screams of **THEM**. The dying. The sick. They want me dead. They want to kill me. There was a man in the kitchen  eating  people. Ripping out their innards like they were the guts of a pumpkin and stuffing it in his face. I can’t take it anymore. I can’t find my way out.  There is no way out.  _

_Lisa I love you baby. I’m sorry._

 

 

 

That wasn’t something he was expecting to read. His blue orbs rose to glance at Waylon once again. Trying to imagine seeing these things through his eyes. How terrifying that must be. To witness such horrific atrocities each day. He looked at the date at the top and thought back to what had happened that day. It sounded familiar to him. With a slow exhale, he focused back to when he had seen it and an incident report popped up in the back of his mind. There was a situation between three different patients that day. One of them had started screaming in the day room and startled two others. There was a fight and more screaming which caused the room to go on lockdown as the staff tried to calm and separate the frightened or upset patients and get everyone back to their rooms where it was quiet and safe.

 

As far as the man eating people, he found that was a common mention from two previous journal entries and he could only think of the cafeteria cook Frank Manera. He was the only one that might fit the description. He was a little rough around the edges in appearance and his hick accent might be off putting at first but he was a damn good cook and many of the patients appreciated the more down home feeling to the food. It was comforting for many of them. Made them feel like they were having a taste of home. Some of the staff even appreciated it as well. Mount Massive wasn’t known to have great food in the past for their patients which was often bland and unappetizing but when they hired the bearded man and put him in the kitchen, the patients that normally didn’t eat well were doing much better.

 

Well, except Waylon that is. Now he had the feeling he knew why. If he was seeing Frank as some cannibalistic psycho in his mind, he wouldn’t want to eat anything that came from the man either. With a tired sigh, he rubbed at his eyes and closed the journal, noting the failing light in the room wasn’t doing his eyes any good for reading but he didn’t want to turn on the light out of respect for Waylon. He resigned himself to just sitting, watching over the male.

 

“You’re not alone in this fight Waylon.” Eddie murmured, his legs crossed at the knee as he relaxed back at an angle, leaning against the arm of the chair with his hands folded in his lap, atop the journal. Waylon’s name and identification number was scrawled across the front in neat inky font. The pages and some of the cover was stained or looked like it had been damp in some places, spotted in dots of water damage. Dr. Gluskin can only assume the male had cried over his journal, mourning the misfortunes of his predicament. The fears that he faced and how tightly he clutched to this notebook as his way of cataloging what he may have assumed were his last days alive.

 

“I want to help you Waylon. I’m not your enemy here. You may see me that way, which is unfortunate but I will not let that stop me from helping you. You’re hurting. You’re hurting very badly and I want to take that hurt away.” Dr. Gluskin leaned forward, reaching for his patient’s hand and gently resting his fingers over the back of it. Rubbing his thumb over the spidery lines of dark veins on his cold skin. The room wasn’t all that cold but Waylon never liked cooler temperatures. He always wore layers of clothing and had a tendency to bundle himself up in a blanket like a walking burrito. He wasn’t supposed to leave his room like that but he refused to leave it most days unless he had the blanket with him.

 

Eddie got up from his chair, withdrawing his hand in the process and went to a locked cupboard in the corner of the room where medical supplies were stored and opened it up with a swipe of his key card. The green light shone on the small device and the door clicked open. There was a myriad of supplies and equipment within the cupboard but what he was after was the stacks of clean pressed sheets and blankets. He pulled one of the thicker blankets off of the shelf along with a lighter one and carefully draped them over the sleeping form of the blonde male. He adjusted the blankets to tuck them around the frail form, mindful of the cords and tubes from the monitors as he did so. He double checked the cupboard when he was done before returning to his seat. He didn’t touch the male’s hand again since it was covered in the blanket with hopes to warm Waylon up. “I’m always here to help you Waylon. I’m not going anywhere until you’re better.”


	3. Nightmares

_Waylon cried out, writhing in the grasp of the doctors as they clutched tightly at his body. Pulling at him in painful directions, his mouth pried open with cold metallic instrument. Tears brimmed at his eyes as each tool was shown to him in a cruel fashion. Flaunting the torment to come as they poked and prodded harshly inside his mouth. He felt the sharp instruments stabbing at him gums and cried out as blood coated his tongue. His arms fought the restraints of the chair, his ankles and wrists bound to the frame. His toes curling, fingers flexing as he clawed for freedom. His head tried to jerk back but the restraints kept him in place. A metal brace kept his neck and jaw immobilized as the tools forced his jaw open to a painful point. He felt like there were pieces of metal being driven into his gums. The pain was unimaginable as the tears blurred his vision and he struggled to swallow. Saliva and blood pooling in his mouth._

 

_His pale blue eyes widened into greater alarm when a pair of pliers were shown in the fringes of his vision. He whimpered, his eyes pleading as he felt the cold metal grating against his teeth. The hot tears raced down his face as the tool clamped down and he felt the painful tug of gums and flesh ripping and felt the roots give way and the tooth be plucked out. A scream muffled only by the blood and awkward position of his mouth. His tongue held firmly in place by clamps supplied by another doctor’s grasp. The gloves were stained red as they fought him for control. Another harsh bite of the pliers on another tooth and the searing pain splitting through his skull ensued. His teeth slowly being deposited on a metal surgical tray beside the chair atop bloody rags._

 

_He felt something jabbing at his arm as yet another doctor jammed another needle into the pained limb. The fluid pushed into his system was like acid in his veins. He had two other already buried in his flesh connected to all sorts of tubes and monitors behind him. He felt his head swimming as more drugs flooded his system into an intoxicating cocktail. He felt the suction of an instrument against his mouth, cleaning out the buildup of fluid. His body growing increasingly numb and limp in the restraints. His eyes half lidded, pale orbs dazed and distant but the pain remained. The fear remained and the tears continued to fall. He wasn’t losing consciousness. He was kept on the very cusps of lucidity. Of this torment he was forced to endure._

 

“Waylon? Waylon wake up!” The heavy voice barked at the smaller blonde male. His wrists were sore and swollen from fighting the restraints. Dark bruising covered his ankles and his entire body ached from straining and flexing weak muscles. His pale blue orbs were glazed, struggling to focus as he slowly came to his senses. Dr. Gluskin loomed over him, rubbing at his cheek, wiping away the tears on his face. There was blood covering those chapped lips from where Waylon had bitten the inside of his cheek in his sleep and he was rasping for air as if something was in the way. Eddie helped him turn his head to aid in coughing up whatever it was, possibly the blood in his mouth that was in the way but he didn’t dare put his fingers anywhere near his patient’s lips in this state. The heart monitor was going nuts, beeping far too quickly to be safe. “Waylon! Come on. Wake up. It’s just a nightmare.”

 

The blonde’s hair was plastered to his skin with sweat, his clothes were wrinkled and soaked as well. He had been thrashing around for sometime. The bedding and his clothes were in disarray and one of the blankets was nearly completely off the one half of his body. The pale blue eyes were barely visible through his eyelids as his body twitched and jerked on the bed, almost mimicking a seizure. He’d assume that’s exactly what it was if it wasn’t for the earlier petrified screaming coming from his chest. It was ear piercing from down the hall. Making him wonder how he didn’t rupture his vocal cords in the process.

 

Dr.Gluskin reached down and held Waylon’s forehead back, his gloved hand nearly slipping against the sweat that accumulated beneath his bangs, tilting his head back to shine a light into Waylon’s eyes, hoping to draw him out of whatever this was. At the moment the nurses and orderlies were instructed to stay out of the room while he worked. Tending to the other patients on the floor that were startled by the outburst.

 

“Come on Way, wake up. Whatever you’re seeing, it’s not real.” He tried to shake the male’s shoulders once more and as he did so, he noticed that Waylon was steadily becoming more cognizant. Pulling him out of the nightmares that held him so tightly but he still choked and gasped for breath. “Breath through your nose Waylon. Slow deep breathes.” He guided, reaching for the mechanism on the side of the bed that made the head of the bed rise so he could sit upright. His head lolled forward, tears dripping from the tip of his nose and his chin as he gasped. A cough came after, sputtering to life in a fit as he was slung back into reality. Dr. Gluskin rubbed at his shoulders soothingly, directing him on breathing and cooing reassurances.

 

Once Waylon could breath normally, his hands pull on the restraints in an attempt to touch at his face but he was still bound in place which only made him cry even harder. His chest bursting with gasps and sobs. The taste of blood on his tongue from his bit cheek wasn’t helping any but there wasn’t much Dr. Gluskin could do until Waylon calmed down. He didn’t want to let him out of the restraints when he was so upset and still processing the reality around him. If that was even what was going on in his head at the moment. “Waylon?” Eddie asked softly, crouching down beside Waylon’s bed as he placed a gentle hand on his arm. The gesture was respectful while he tried to get the male’s attention. “Do you remember where you are?”

 

Waylon hiccuped, his pale blue eyes blurry as he tried to focus through his drug addled thoughts. The heart monitor settled to a more normal rhythm for his current state. It was still fast but Eddie was glad it was no where near where it had been. The i.v was still in his arm, the cord had been knocked against the sides of the bed but the needle remained firmly in place. The medical tape holding it there did it’s job. His body was trembling, the sweat continued to accumulate on his skin as his distress persisted. He searched for his words, trying multiple times to form them but he was either crying too hard or failing to push them past chapped lips. “Waylon, calm down. Slow deep breaths, okay? You’re alright. There’s nothing going to harm you. You’re safe. Just breath.”

 

Eddie helped, gently rubbing his shoulder and demonstrating what he should be doing. Before long, Waylon was calmer. His sobbing faded out to the occasional hiccup or shuddering breath. He was still pale, his eyes looked darker, more sunk in and frightened but Eddie could work with that. It pained him to see the blonde like this. Even more than the violent enraged outbursts he often witnessed. This was far more troubling to the doctor. Rage can be sedated, but nightmares were a monster all their own. Dreams were a foreign concept to the mental health studies. Uncontrollable and easily influenced by changes in environment and the body. They had the biggest impact upon the mind and could easily be the undoing of any man.

 

As Waylon collected himself bit by bit, Dr. Gluskin went to the hallway door where a nurse waited for him encase he needed anything. She was a small petite girl with bright green eyes that were wide and jumpy. She was new to the hospital in the last couple weeks, many of the staff didn’t stay long. Unable to take the stress of working with such unpredictable patients and working conditions so they went through a lot of orderlies and nurses. The doctors were the ones that lasted the longest here in the hospital but they couldn’t run it alone and it was growing tedious to keep training new staff each month. “I need a pitcher of water, two cups, wash rags and a basin of warm water brought to the room immediately please.” He directed. The girl gave a curt nod and turned on her heel, pausing only a moment to see if the doctor needed anything more but when she looked back, the door was already shut before she hurried off to complete her tasks.

 

Eddie returned to the chair beside the bed and waited, watching the heart monitor as Waylon calmed into a safer more normal rhythm. It wasn’t as fast or erratic. A couple more minutes passed by when a knock came at the door and Dr. Gluskin was on his feet to greet the nurse on the other side. Everything was neatly arranged on a tray though the nurse looked a little frazzled. He easily took it into his grasp, picking it up with ease where as she held it tightly, fearing spilling any of the contents. She appeared relieved, her eyes shooting to the room then back at the doctor as he dismissed her. “Thank you. You may finish your duties for the evening.” She nodded and this time she was off before Eddie could shut the door.

 

He placed the tray on the bed side table and started by filling up a cup with the pitcher, doling out a few good sips of water. He held the rim of the small clear plastic cup to Waylon’s lips, the male moved in the restraints as if to take it but remembered he couldn’t use his hands. He resigned to parting his lips to accept the liquid. “Don’t swallow it. Swish it around in your mouth. Clean out the blood or else it’ll upset your stomach.” Waylon did as he was directed. The second cup was used for him to spit the bloodied water into. Eddie gave him a few more sips and repeated until the water came out clear instead of the earlier crimson tinge. After that, he was given a larger amount and permitted to swallow to which Waylon eagerly gulped down whatever Dr. Gluskin would allow him. Of course in controlled amounts. He didn't want the blonde male to become ill from it. “There. That’s better. Let’s get you cleaned up.”

 

He set the cup aside and traded it out for a wash rag which he dampened in the basin of warm water. Wringing it out before he began carefully dabbing at Waylon’s neck and face. At first the ex-engineer was apprehensive to the touches, turning his head away or drawing back from the doctor’s touch but Eddie reassured him. “It’s alright Waylon. I’m not going to hurt you. Just relax. It’s only a wet rag.” His voice was soft and honeyed, the words dripping from his lips with a nurturing tone one would associate more with a motherly figure and not the behemoth of a man beside him. Yet Waylon couldn’t help the fact it was just a little bit calming. His fears of Eddie abated for the time being as his mind was preoccupied with a whole different set of fears.

 

“Waylon, would you like your therapy journal? You can write in it while I clean you up. Does that sound good?” Eddie asked in soft tones, his voice wasn’t degrading like one would use for a child. It was careful, mindful of the fact Waylon wasn’t in the best place at the moment. It was cautious, letting him know he was permitted space to gather his thoughts but within limits.

 

The blonde male nodded slowly, rasping out a soft. “Yes...please.” His voice was weak, broken with his throat swollen from the earlier coughing and before that the screaming. Eddie sat the rag aside and dug out the journal from the inside of his coat pocket. Setting it in Waylon’s lap and placing an expensive looking silver ballpoint pen with the Hospital logo on the side atop it.

 

“I’ve been holding onto it so at times when you need it, I can give it to you right away.” Eddie explained as he carefully began releasing the buckles holding Waylon’s wrists. He contemplated letting the male’s ankles free as well and after a moment he gave in and let those go too. Waylon drew his knees up as soon as his legs were freed and used them to rest the journal again, flipping to the nearest clean empty page and started writing. Ignoring Eddie’s presence as the doctor continued to wipe the sweat covered skin clean and dabbed at Waylon’s cheeks and around his forehead.

 

He would have Waylon change out of his current outfit into something dry but he didn’t have any of Waylon’s clothes on hand. Each patient had five sets of clothing to their name with their numbers imprinted into the material. Waylon’s room was in another wing where the living quarters were. These rooms were mostly used for medical purposes and for after treatment care and recovery. The normal living spaces for the patients were more like small dorm rooms. Complete with a dresser and bed, a desk and they had a bathroom. Patients could earn different things in their rooms through positive reinforcement and privileges. When a patient lost a privilege, something from their living space would be taken away or they would be removed from that space to be confined in a special cell or room. It all depends on circumstances.

 

When he was finished cleaning the smaller male up, he took a seat beside the bed and silently watched the male write. He had filled out a couple pages, furiously writing down every last detail. Eddie glanced between the male’s pale blue orbs and the journal, noticing his facial features changing throughout his writing. His eyes would go distant and his brows would knit together, then it would twist into a grimace before fleeing into a look of horror. Eyes wide and fearful as if he was reliving a more watered down version of events in his mind as each word was put to paper in thick black ink.

 

Eddie counted up to five pages had been filled out before Waylon finally stopped, staring down at the page in silent contemplation. He slowly closed the journal and clutched it tightly between shaky fingers. A single tear slid down his cheek as his eyes went distant, zoning out into thought. Dr. Gluskin sat upright, prepared to intervene should his patient lapse into another episode, the chair creaking with his weight shifting. Waylon blinked and looked up from the journal to a point at the wall before turning his eyes to the raven haired male. He held out the journal with the pen sitting on top of it to return to the larger male.

 

Eddie took it in hand and gave Waylon a warm smile but there was no reciprocation. Waylon’s face was emotionless, his eyes held a depth in them that was easy to gaze into and be lost in. It was unnerving to Eddie when he dared to look and found despair swirling in those blue orbs. A soundless pain that was all consuming and beyond anything Eddie had ever seen before. Normally the look in a patient’s eyes were blank or angry or simply sad. Waylon’s were far more complicated. His behavior was uncharacteristically docile but that look, that look only added to the conundrum that was Waylon Park.


	4. (C) at and (M)ouse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Miles causes mischief because that's what Miles does. 
> 
> Some Miles and Chris fluff.

 

Radio static hummed on the medical staff’s specialized pagers. A deep burly voice spoke into the speaker, alerting the staff that their rambunctious journalist had once again gave his room the slip. “All personnel, keep an eye out on the main floor. Upshur has fled the pen again.” The man that owned the voice was a large muscular individual with short closely cropped brown hair and soft brown eyes. He was ex-military security and now spent his days mostly chasing Miles around Mount Massive Asylum in an attempt to keep the wiley young man in one place. No matter what room they put him in or what sort of restraints, he always managed to get out. It was to the point that it was like a game of cat and mouse and Miles always enjoyed being on the run. Outwitting the military man.

 

He stalked down the hall, hearing his radio cue up as a nasally voice came over the mic. He recognized it immediately as Dr. Richard Trager. Miles was his charge but the good doctor was struggling to deal with the young man as the days went by. Without outright sedating him all the time, there was little to keep the ex-journalist in place. “He’s out again? This is the second time this morning.” There was a break in the voice, a cut off sigh before the doctor spoke more firmly. “Chris, will you be a doll and get him? Since he likes you the most.”

 

Chris Walker held up his mic and waited for a brief pause before speaking. “Already on it Doc.” It was followed up by some idle chatter before Chris continued his search. He checked half a dozen rooms, looking inside and under beds and desks. No room was off limits and he knew even if they were locked, he still had to look. The brunette had a habit of locking himself in the dark. He was looking through one room when he heard the soft echo of a “Fuck!” come from down the hall and spotted a dark form crouched down low and peering at him around the corner. He was hunched over a journal of sorts and the curse came as a mournful expression was fixed on his broken pencil. The lead rolling down the hall. Green eyes met Chris’ brown and in a blink of an eye, the smaller male was scrambling to his feet and disappeared down the way.

 

Chris smirked, adjusted his radio on his belt so it doesn’t flip off and started rushing down the hall to catch up. Despite being fast, all the sharp turns and doorways slowed him down. Miles had far too much experience in clearing these obstacles and at one point in the last few months, he even jumped clear over a gurney a patient was being wheeled across the hall in. Vaulting over it to land on the other side in a roll that made the military man a bit envious and well, impressed. There were two more corners and a long hallway full of doors leading to the east wing of the hospital. Down this way was the cafeteria and kitchen. Past that was a day room where a lot of the elderly or more physically disabled patients spent their time. A separate day room in the west wing was where the rest of the patients were that were simply not so sound of mind but their bodies were in good shape. Well sort of. Miles was missing fingers and Dr. Gluskin’s patient now had a permanent limp. Besides that, they were surprisingly independent.

 

Chris continued wandering down the hall, checking each room as he passed no matter how tedious it was, he had to be thorough. He didn’t want to see Miles get hurt, rather accidentally or purposely. The smaller male was a pain at times but they had a form of acquaintanceship when Miles was more lucid and had more self-control. When he was having an episode or an attack, he would be completely terrified of him. Given the fact Miles didn’t run screaming down the hallway squealing something about pigs and missing heads, he figured this was one of his more lucid playful dispositions.  He was leaving about the fourth room in the hallway of over a dozen when he heard a female voice screech from the kitchen area. “GET OUT OF THERE!” There was clattering and the sound of pots and pans being knocked off of tables and onto the floor. Chris made it to the doorway just in time to see Miles vault over a preparation table and end up running right smack into the security guard’s chest. The force knocked Miles off balance and instead of catching himself, he fell back onto his butt.

 

Chris eyed the ex-journalist up and down and noticed the reason he didn’t catch himself. He was wearing the usual patient outfit of pants and a long sleeve shirt. His sleeves rolled up to his elbows. He had his pencil tucked behind his ear, almost invisible against the head of long unruly brown locks that, despite the mess still seemed to frame his charming features well. He had dark circles underneath his eyes but had all the mischief and energy of a raccoon. In his arms he had his journal tucked under his bicep, two juice boxes, a snack pack of chocolate pudding and an apple. The kitchen staff were startled and staring at the young man in complete bewilderment. He gave Chris a charming smile that was all perfect teeth and held up a peace offering of one of his filched juice boxes. Chris sighed, unable to keep the smile off his face. He accepted the peace offering but still gave Miles a look that said ‘you’re in big trouble mister.’

 

“Mr. Walker, can you please tell Dr. Trager to keep a leash on his patient. He keeps raiding the pantry!” The cook waved a ladle at Miles in gesture.

 

Chris sighed and shook his head. “I’m sorry ladies. I’ll be sure to let the Doc know but I hope you won’t make him part with his loot. You wouldn’t want to see the poor boy go hungry, would you?” Miles turned his head to face the kitchen staff and gave them his best sad puppy look with a pouting lip and pleading green eyes that looked on the verge of tears at the mention of losing his snacks. The cook looked from Chris to Miles then back again and cursed under her breath.

 

“Fine, he can keep them. But next time he’s caught stealing from here, I expect him to be put to work washing tables at least.” The elder woman grumbled, placing her hands on her wide hips.

 

“Certainly Ma’am.” Chris gave a grunt of affirmation before reaching down to haul Miles up to his feet by his bicep. One hand resting on the back of the young man’s neck to steer him back towards his rightful wing of the hospital. The west wing. After they had reached the center hall that connected the wing’s together, Chris grabbed his radio and spoke into the mic. “Heading to the exam room Doc. I’ve got your boy with me.”

 

“Fantastic. I’ll be there in a couple minutes.” Returned the nasally voice with some hushed words in the background from another person. Inaudible over the static.

 

The examination room was at the beginning of the West wing. Mostly it was a normal medical room like one would find in a normal hospital. It was actually part of a bigger room that was broken up into four smaller exam rooms that were separated into individual units. There were glass windows on all sides that could allow them to be seen from the center nurses’ station that oversaw the room. Right now it was empty. Chris took Miles into room number two which was the closest one to the door and directed the brunette to sit on the bed.

 

Miles carefully unloaded his snacks on the end of it and sat with his legs crossed like a kid showing off his halloween candy to a parent. His journal sat amidst it all and the broken pencil was laid down on top of it. Miles gave it a mournful look where the led had been and the wood tip was bent. Technically they were supposed to write in pen but Miles kept exploding the ink cartridges and making a black inky mess on the floor. It made his problems worse as he would mumble about The Walrider the entire time as he smeared his hands in the black fluid and made finger painting like images of a phantom being and would write it’s name out. With the pencil, he had actually sketched out a handful of images into the book that was incredibly vivid and showed off what he was really seeing to the exact detail. The rest of the journal was cursing and babbling on about how pissed he was that Doc Trager took three of his fingers.

 

“If you’re good, I’ll talk Doc into giving you a new pencil.” Chris said, leaning against the wall beside the bed and staring over Miles’ shoulders. They were slumped in despair at the lost of his only writing utensil. His his head snapped up at Chris’ words and he nodded in understanding before turning back to his stash, popping open the juice box and sucking on the straw just as the Doc walked in.

 

“Mr. Upshur, causing trouble again eh?” Dr. Trager walked into the room, his long silver hair was a bit of a mess, falling out of the ponytail he often kept it tied up in. He looked scattered and disheveled, fixing his circular wire rimmed glasses, pushing them higher up on the bridge of his nose. His pale brown eyes were cold and unsettling, often making those before him squirm uncomfortably. Miles was the exception to that, though it made him more defiant and tense. At the moment he didn’t even give the doc a second of his attention as he held the juice box straw by his teeth, sucking the apple juice up as he fought with his pudding pack to get the lid off of it.

 

“He was getting a snack from the kitchen sir.” Chris informed nonchalantly. The juice box Miles had given him was tucked into his pocket, out of sight at the moment. “The cook said the next time he comes in sneaking food, she demands he work it off by washing tables or you should put a leash on him.”

 

That earned a bark of laughter from Dr. Trager. Miles’ head snapped up, green eyes narrowing on the doctor at his outburst before the wrapped finally peeled off the pudding pack. “Fuck yeah!” Miles blurted and sat his juice box on the journal and tilted his head back, squeezing the plastic container from the bottom and letting gravity deposit the thick chocolatey goodness into his open awaiting mouth. Tongue sticking out obscenely. Trager rolled his eyes and turned to get some supplies from the nurses’ station to change the bandaging on the journalist’s hands. Chris remained at his side, eying the brunette quietly and laughing when a bit of the chocolate plopped onto Miles’ nose. He found a tissue from a nearby box, they were the thin papery kind that wasn’t all that durable or friendly on the skin but it worked in a pinch and handed it over to Miles. He took it simply because he couldn’t just wipe it off onto his hand and lick it off with the dirtied bandages on.

 

By time Trager returned, Miles was already cleaned of his chocolate mess and had turned his ravenous appetite onto the unsuspecting apple. Making the already grimy bandages sticky with juice. Dr. Trager frowned at the display and looked to Chris as if expecting the larger male to intervene. He gave him a shrug, finding nothing wrong with the situation whatsoever. “I’ll be back in a sec. I’ll throw this trash away.” He had most of Miles’ trash in hand and left the room, leaving the doctor alone with his patient. Trager watched Chris through the glass paneling as he made his way to the nurses’ station, probably to use the garbage can beneath the desk. The male returned a minute later and stood by once Miles’ finished his snack.

 

Dr. Trager rolled his eyes and kicked a chair from the nearby corner over to the bed and sat the bandages to the side. “Miles, give me your hands. Come on.” He said impatiently, beckoning for the brunette to obey. Miles looked completely disinterested but held out his hands with their missing fingers and blood stains. Trager easily started unwrapping the mess of gauze and bandages, displaying two empty nubs on one hand and an empty space on the other. Stitched shut at the middle knuckles with black wiring. They were scabbed over and crusted a bit with blood. Trager had alcohol wipes which he used to clean the nubs up, gaining a growl and a slew of curses from Miles’ lips as he squirmed on the bed.

 

Miles looked on the verge of bolting about halfway through when Chris stepped behind Dr. Trager and pulled a pencil out of his pocket and held it up for the brunette to see. His green eyes turned from scowling at Trager to giving a sly little smirk of understanding. He took a shaky breath and beared through it the rest of the way. Once his hands were bandaged up, Chris put the pencil back in his pocket, out of sight from Trager as he waited for the doctor to hand over his charge to the security guard. Dr. Trager gave the usual spiel to his patient about not causing anymore trouble, to stay in his quarters from now and to keep from mucking up his bandages. This was the same thing he was told every single time he would escape his room and if it didn’t work the first fifty times, it certainly wouldn’t work now but he ranted on it anyway.

 

After that, charge was exchanged and Chris was left alone to escort Miles back to his quarters in the West wing. Chris grabbed up the trash left on the bed and waited for miles to climb down and follow him, his juice box in hand as he finished it off and the garbage was thrown away in the nurses’ station. Before leaving the exam rooms, Chris traded the broken pencil for the new one which had Miles in a fit of delight. He clutched it tightly in his trembling hands. They ached from the alcohol and all the prodding to his nubs but he didn’t seem to care too much about the pain. He was excited to be able to get back to his journal which he started writing in furiously while trailing along beside Chris in relative silence. Chris snuck a glance at what Miles’ was doing, slowing down enough to peer over his shoulder only to spot an entire page taken up by the black void that was The Walrider. There was depth and detail so precise and realistic that it sent chills through Chris.  The deep sunken eyes and the dips and curves of skeletal traits in the torso. The shading was offputting, adding to the horror of the creature as if it could rise right off of the page.

 

Chris had to catch himself from staring, almost walking right past Miles’ room. He opened it, inspecting the twin bed with it’s thin mattress and wiry creaky frame. Miles plopped down on it without a second thought, causing it to groan and scrape against the tile floor. A blanket was wadded up at the end and his pillow shoved up to the head board to cushion his back from the painful position against the metal frame. His knees drawn up as he continued to work on the sketch of the creature. He only gave Chris a moment’s glance when the security guard spoke up. “Here little piggy.” His fond nickname for the food thief was a spur of the moment remark months ago that had grown on the both of them. He placed the extra juice box on the desk next to the bed where it was easily within reach. There were papers scattered across it with different versions of the creature drawn on them but the one Miles was currently working on was the most unsettling by far.

 

Assuming Miles was too lost in his therapy journal, the guard started for the door, pausing only when he heard the brunette speak up in a soft voice. His brown eyes turned back to see Miles holding the juice box in hand, sipping at it. “Thanks Chris.” He held up the pencil for emphasis as to why he was thanking him. Chris gave a curt nod and a smile before locking the journalist in for the afternoon. At least until dinner time.


	5. Surprise Visit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More Miles antics and Eddie gets a new look on the goings on's of his patient.

“Damn it! Where’s Upshur?” Eddie heard Trager grumbling down the hall as he searched the rooms and spoke to staff. Complaining that his patient had escaped yet again. And once again, poor Chris was sent off to clean up the doctor’s mess. Eddie felt back for Chris but for some reason Miles did really well with the ex-soldier turned security guard which was surprising. Especially since he was a journalist or well, former anyway and security weren’t exactly friendly to his type. But Chris obviously had a soft spot for the boy that couldn’t be helped. 

 

He breathed a soft sigh and headed down the hall, ignoring Trager’s ravings over the radio and turning his own off before entering the room that held his own patient in it. Waylon had been sedated once again after another stint of nightmares that made him violent and he ended up spraining his ankle in an attempt to flee some imaginary force. The same bad ankle that they had been nursing since the elevator incident. It was exhausting work but they had to keep him from harming himself some way or another and keeping the poor boy bound all the time didn’t help his state of mind. Only furthered the nightmares. 

 

Eddie used his key to unlock the door and opened it to find a tall silhouette standing over Waylon’s bed. A mess of brown locks hanging down over his face in a messy appearance, a signature look for the male that always seemed to fit just right. Eddie paused, letting the door quietly click shut behind him, watching to see what he would do or even if he was cognizant of his presence. He moved silently around to stand at a different angle, just off to the side a little bit. Enough to see that Miles’ fingers, what’s left of them, was curled carefully around Waylon’s limp hand. His voice came out, soft and broken, as if he had been crying. “Why won’t he wake up?” Miles asked, alerting Eddie that his entry did not go unnoticed. 

 

He sighed and walked around to the other side of the ale, spotting Miles’ journal lying on the bed stand beside Waylon’s. Waylon’s was neat and looked newer while Miles was scuffed up from being shoved and wedge all over and covered in inky markings on the cover. Damp trails led down Miles’ face and wet tear drops dampened the front of his shirt and the sheets below. He was not only crying, but he had been sobbing by the amount of tears residue. “He’s just sleeping Miles. Don’t worry. He’ll wake up soon.” Eddie reassured. Placing a gentle hand on Miles’ shoulder and carefully rubbing between the blades of bone. “Would you like to wait with me until he does?” His voice was soft, maternal. He knew Miles should be back in his room, but Eddie couldn’t bring himself to leave him like this. He hoped Waylon could reassure him and bring him some peace. 

 

Miles looked up at the doctor, hope sparking in his eyes as he nodded eagerly. Eddie smiled and pulled a chair up to the side of the bed so Miles could sit. He was fine standing, after all he had to examine Waylon’s leg to ensure it was healing well. He moved around to the end of the bed and folded the blanket up to expose the wrapped ankle. He carefully unwrapped the bandages and inspected the healing wound and swelled flesh. He sighed, shaking his head slowly. “At this rate, it’ll never get better.”

 

“Hm? What won’t?” Miles asked, shifting in his seat his hands still holding Waylon’s as he turned curious eyes onto Eddie. 

 

“Oh, Waylon hurt his leg a while ago but it hasn’t been able to heal properly. He keeps injuring it. Not on purpose of course but it won’t get better unless he stays in bed.” Eddie explained. 

 

Miles seemed to regard this for a moment then nodded. “The idiot…” He huffed, rubbing his thumb over the back of Waylon’s hand affectionately. His emerald eyes, so tired and worn, turned to gaze upon the dark sunken spots where Waylon closed lids were. His expression was pained, like watching a loved one waste away before him. Waylon wasn’t dying physically, Eddie knew that and so did Miles. But with each passing day, he was dying inside and soon there wasn’t going to be much left of him if he didn’t get better soon. 

 

“Did you sneak out of your room just to come see him?” Eddie asked softly, glancing up only for a moment before turning his attention back down to the injury, feeling the muscles out carefully and inspecting the swelling. 

 

“I may have. I haven’t seen him in a while. I was worried something was wrong- I didn’t know he was _ like this.” _ He gestured towards Waylon with his free hand. “Otherwise I would have come sooner.”

 

“I’m afraid  _ this  _ is just going to keep getting worse. Nothing is working to be honest.” He probably shouldn’t be saying these things to Miles but he didn’t think it would hurt to tell the man the truth. “There’s no medicine or treatment that can fix this. It’s all up to him but it seems like he doesn’t want to get better.” Eddie sighed, fixing the bandages back up so they were firm enough to keep it in place before fixing the blanket back over Waylon’s legs to keep him warm. 

 

“I wouldn’t blame him.” Miles said softly, lifting Waylon’s hand to his forehead, wrapping it between both of his hands. “I know he doesn’t want to believe it, losing his family and such. It’s painful but he knows the reality. He just refuses to accept it.”

 

“He what?” Eddie’s attention snapped up to Miles. “Did he tell you this?”

 

“He did. When we used to spend so much time together in the dayroom. We spoke of our lives outside of this place. You all would never even think we were nuts.” Miles’ tone was sarcastic at the last part. “He knew his family was gone. That the baby never came. That his wife wasn’t pregnant. They tried though. Waylon wanted another kid so badly.” He murmured, eyes turning from the sleeping male up to the doctor. “He’s grieving Doc, and none of this is helping. He’s afraid to grieve outwardly. If I were him, taking a dive down an elevator shaft would be the least of my worries. Maybe the things he’s running from isn’t made up in his head. He’s just running from a life he doesn’t want any part of anymore. His life ended when that car went off the road.” He pointed out, giving Eddie a firm look. It was the most normal Eddie has seen Miles in a long time. 

 

“You two speak of your lives a lot then? Before this place.” He asked warily.

 

Miles shifted Waylon’s hand back to the bed and let go of it, sitting back in his seat with a sigh and a nod. “Yeah, what else do you think we talk about?” He folded his arms across his chest casually. “We’d complain about our old jobs, our shitty bosses and the thankless hours. We talk about where we went to school and how our lives were growing up. Our families and such. We’re normal people Doc, all of us. We’re not all drooling on ourselves and pissing the bed.” Miles chuckled. ‘Though some of us do have our moments. We’re just broken and we need someone to help put us back together. But Waylon, I don’t think he wants to be fixed because his life had no point without his wife and son being in it. He has nobody to keep him here anymore.”

 

Eddie’s eyes widened when he heard that. He had considered it, but his mind was so fixed on the clinical side of things, he wasn’t considering the more human ones. He was so worried about the right treatment, the right medication, the right everything else. Waylon’s been so isolated because since the loss of his family. What he needed wasn’t to be locked away for his own safety. He cursed himself for being so blind. Before he had the chance to speak, a knock came at the door. Eddie turned to open it, glancing at the interrupting person only to meet soft brown eyes staring back at him. The large form of the security guard stood at the door. “Pardon the intrusion Doc, but is he here?” Chris inquired, looking past  Eddie’s own equally as large for to spy the brunette, sitting slumped beside Waylon’s bed. “I trust he didn’t cause any trouble for you.”

 

“None at all. He’s just visiting a friend.” Eddie explained, stepping to the side to let the guard in. 

 

Chris sighed and headed over to where Miles sat and placed a hand on his shoulder. He looked over the brunette then gazed upon the pitiful frail form in the bed. “Come on Miles, time to head back. Doc Trager is about to blow a gasket.” 

 

“You know, as far as I care, he can go fuck himself.” Miles grumbled.

 

“I know, I know. But if he goes, not many want to deal with ya.” Chris chuckled and Miles sighed, nodding. “Here, for you. Compliments of the kitchen staff.” Chris pulled out a juice box and an apple from a pouch on the side of his belt, handing them to the smaller male. “Don’t tell Doc.” 

 

Miles lit up at the sight of the snack and a grin spread on his lips. “Well, I guess if you’re twisting my arm, I gotta head back.” He took the apple and juice box then gathered his journal up in his arms. 

 

Chris placed a hand on the center of his back and steered him out of the room, giving Eddie a curt nod. “Thank you sir for keeping an eye on him.”

 

“No problem. Bring him by occasionally. I think it might be helpful for my patient to socialize with someone familiar.” Eddie smiled. “I’ll talk to Doctor Trager about it later.”

 

“Thank you.” Miles spoke up before poking the straw into his juice box and slurping away at it as Chris hurried him out of the room. 

 


	6. Little Pig and the Big Bad Wolf

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shit hits the fan for both Waylon and Miles.

“Please…I just want to go home.” Waylon pleaded through chapped lips. The skin dry and cracking. His throat parched, only adding to his pitiful appearance there on the hospital bed. It had been the first words Waylon had spoken in some time but Eddie found them hard to swallow and accept. His patient was finally having a ‘good’ day. He didn’t use that term firmly since it was good because Waylon was awake and conscious and speaking in coherent sentences. He didn’t seem lost or confused, just desperate. He knew what he wanted but Eddie was having trouble dissuading that need he felt.

 

“I’m sorry Waylon, but your home doesn’t exist anymore.” The words were hard for Dr. Gluskin to push out. The absolute despair that broke those frantic features was heart wrenching and he wished he could take it all back. In truth, Eddie meant the fact Waylon’s place of residence had already been emptied out and sold off to a new owner. Waylon couldn’t afford to keep it and with nobody living in it. All of his things had been cleared out and stored away. The storage company was paid through for two whole years so there was no worry that his belonging will be auctioned off. Many of those things belonged to his son and wife. Things Waylon couldn’t bare to part with should the need arise. But Waylon had taken Eddie’s words with a whole other meaning. With the loss of his family, he no longer belonged anywhere. He didn’t have a home. He was alone and that fact was tearing him apart.

 

Waylon curled up, tucking his knees up to his chest and burying his face into them, the starch white blankets helping stifle the soft sobs that rose in his throat. Tears sneaking down his cheeks, adding to the male’s despair. It hurt the good doctor, to watch his patient fall so hard. He was having such a good day until now. Eddie cursed himself for even opening his mouth about it. Finding he should have just told Waylon they might consider it or they’ll think about it. This...this was much worse.

 

 

On the other side of the Asylum, Dr. Trager wasn’t having any better luck with his patient. Miles had been having nightmares the night before and ended up harming himself in his sleep. Not on purpose of course. He had dreamed the Walrider was attacking him and in his sleep he fought back, successfully breaking his hand in the process as his fist met the wall near his bed. He didn’t seem to notice it until that morning when he was given his breakfast and ended up dropping the tray when the pain shot through his hand. While Trager attempted to fix the hand, Miles became afraid and combative. Scared that the doctor was going to take more of his fingers from him which led to the former journalist screaming and trying to fight the doctor. Other nurses were called in, but Miles was as slippery as an eel and managed to skirt his way out of the room. He broke a panel in the process, panicking when the door wouldn’t open and he threw his shoulder into it.

 

A manhunt ensued around the hospital though staff was told to keep the rest of the patients locked up and nobody was to engage in stopping Miles. Nobody but Chris that is. Which didn’t help since the security guard didn’t start his shift until later in the day and he was called in several hours ahead of time just to get Miles to calm down. He came storming in in civilian wear, blue jeans and a white t-shirt. He had a plaid button up with the sleeves rolled up. He looked fresh out of the shower having just come in from working out when his phone was ringing off the hook as Dr. Trager called him frantically. He breathed a deep sigh and started looking for the injured and frightened brunette. Finding him in the halls on the opposite end of the building where Waylon was being tended to.

 

Dr. Gluskin had heard the tone out for all patients and staff to stay in their rooms and was worried. Waylon’s own upset was growing and Eddie didn’t want to leave Waylon alone but at the same time, he had thought maybe taking him out of the room would brighten his mood. That idea was shot down as the hospital wide lock down began. The constant alarm and announcements over the PA only further upset his patient from all the chaos and noise. He wasn’t the only one as other patients in other rooms were upset by their routines being interrupted. Fights started between patients and staff and other security were called in to handle it. All in all, it felt like a typical Monday. The never ending shit show of a bad day of the week. Nothing seemed to be going right today.

 

When Chris finally found the younger male, he was curled up on the floor, tucked into the corner of an alcove. The doorway was locked, leading into a storage room that only the maintenance department had a key to. He was cradling his broken hand to his chest and was mumbling incoherently to himself. A litany of words with the term Walrider mixed in throughout. The phantom creature that refused to leave the poor man alone. Always haunting him. Chris has heard much about it and felt sympathy for the male and the fact there wasn’t much he could do to help him other then come and fetch him when Trager is at his wits end.

 

He crouched down beside Miles, sitting quietly for several minutes before speaking up. “Hey there Little Pig.” Chris greeted softly, drawing a terrified look from Miles’ pale features. His non-broken hand clenched into a tight fist and Chris half expected to be struck by him. It was a simple enough threat and there wasn’t all that much damage Miles could inflict on him but it was still a worry Chris had to fact in with all of his encounters with the brunette. “It’s okay. You’re alright. You’re safe here.” The deep rumble of his voice was far too loud even as a whisper in the silence between them. Miles stared coldly at Chris as if expecting ill intent from the security guard in return. “I heard you hurt your hand. Can I see it?”

 

Miles shifted his injured hand down, tucking it behind his knees and out of Chris’ sight protectively. Drawing a wince as the broken bones were jostled around. Chris sighed and sat back, holding a single hand out slowly towards Miles, palm facing up as if offering a hand to him. Miles looked from the offered hand to Chris’ calm and softened features before the security guard spoke in a low and almost sing song tune. “ _Little Pig, Little Pig, please let me in.”_

 

Something familiar crossed Miles’ expression and he stared back down at the hand. There was prolonged silence before Chris repeated the melody in the deep rumble of his voice. _“Little Pig, Little Pig, please let me in.”_ This time Miles started to move, raising his injured hand with the help of his other arm until it rested, palm up in Chris’ own hand. It was partially curled, swollen in places and the nubs where his fingers had been were bleeding and irritated. There were big swollen bumps on the back of Miles’ hand and in his palm from where the broken bones were. He held the hand carefully, mindful not to apply any pressure to it as he examined the injury. “Oh my, poor Little Pig.” Chris murmured. “You must be in a lot of pain. Does it hurt?”

 

Miles gave him a look that appeared torn between hiding his pain and being distant and the need for getting closer and wanting to share that he was in fact hurting and he wanted someone to help. Amidst it all was the constant fear of what any of those may result in. “It’s okay. Come on Little Pig. Let’s get you fixed up. Okay? We’ll make the pain stop.” Miles winced as he pulled his hand away and back to his chest, giving Chris a quiet nod of understanding. The security guard helped him up to his feet, one hand on his shoulder while the other gripped his bicep for his uninjured arm. Soon guiding the male through the halls, back to the examination room where Dr. Trager was waiting.

 

 

Meanwhile, with the alarms and PA still blaring the warning and several red lights were flashing in the process, the other patients were upset and panicking. Eddie’s patient was no exception. The lock down system should have settled by now. There was no need to keep blaring the PA or the alarms but it seemed technical difficulties with the far too old and outdated system refused to stop going off.  Waylon covered his ears with his hands and started rocking in place, murmuring something to himself as Eddie shifted from place to place, unable to remain seated. He was uneasy about all this, wanting to go help but he couldn’t leave Waylon alone. Not like this.

 

He heard the blonde gasp sharply, his breath catching in his throat. Eddie turned in time to see Waylon struggling for breath, eyes wide and fixed directly on him. He was even more pale than before and seemed to press himself back into the bed as if trying to flee some invisible force. Eddie approached the bed only to see Waylon flinch back and hold his hands up defensively. It was then that Eddie realized Waylon wasn’t seeing him. Or at least, not the real him. He was seeing the highly feared murderous psychopath that formed in Waylon’s mind. The man with the scarring on one side of his face that meant to do him nothing but harm. Waylon made a choked sound, his chest rising and falling far too quickly to be normal as he panted. His hands clutched at his chest as if he were short of breath and Eddie realized the problem. Waylon was having a panic attack.

 

Eddie was conflicted in trying to help, knowing that approaching the male may make it worse but if he leaves Waylon like that, it wouldn’t be any better. He could make himself pass out which would only temporarily solve the problem. He cursed himself under his breath and approached the bed, taking a seat beside Waylon on the edge of the mattress. He placed his hands over Waylon’s, pulling them away from his chest and throat. He rested them in the male’s lap and then gently touched his shoulders, rubbing them slowly as he tried to get all of Waylon’s attention. “Waylon, it’s okay. Take a deep breath. In through your nose and out through your mouth. Come on. You can do it.”

 

Waylon’s fears kept him stone still as Eddie’s touches and words tried to coax him back. “Waylon, do you understand?” Eddie spoke slowly and very carefully. Using as simple terms as possible, knowing his patient’s mind was a little bit too busy at the moment for anything else to make sense. After a moment, the lights and sounds died down and they were left in silence. Eddie repeated his gentle touches and directions until Waylon started to catch on.  

 

“Good. Good job Waylon. Breath in like you’re smelling roses. Deep deep breath.” Eddie mimicked the same motions, showing Waylon exactly what he needed to do. Smelling the roses with deep breathes through his nose. “Then breath out like you’re blowing out birthday candles. Can you do that for me Waylon?” Waylon followed the display and they breathed together until they had a rhythm down. Long slow deep breath in and a quick deep blow of air out. It had Waylon growing dizzy with a fuzzy almost numbness settling over his mind and body. The breathing exercises helped the rest of him relax and the hands on his shoulders managed to pull him out of his nightmare and focus on the friendly male before him. The Eddie that wished to help him. That _was_ helping him. Not the man that stalked his nightmares, that intended to do severe harm to him.

 

“Good job Waylon. Keep doing that until you feel better, alright?” Eddie waited quietly, shifting to one side of Waylon, watching him while he kept one hand on his back, feeling the way he breathed through his frail form. The way his torso expanded in unison before deflating with every exhale.

 

Once Waylon was calmed down enough, Eddie reached into his coat pocket and smiled as he watched his patient become more aware of his surroundings and relaxed. Sitting upright in the bed with his hands in his lap, fiddling his fingers together nervously. He had come back to his normal breathing patterns, helping Eddie relax as well. Knowing his patient was fine once more. “Here, you might want to write a bit in this.” He set the blonde male’s therapy journal on the bed with a pen resting on top, leaving Waylon to use it as he pleased. Waylon picked it up right away and touched it with the tips of his fingers, rubbing over the familiar cover before turning the pages to the next clean page. Satisfied, Eddie spoke up. “Alright, i’ll be back in a little bit. I’ve gotta go check on the others. Will you be fine without me for a little bit Waylon?” Eddie asked, gaining a silent nod the male. Eddie assumed that’s all he’s get as Waylon was busy writing away in his journal.

 

 

Dr. Gluskin was only gone for half an hour before he returned to his patient. He checked on the lock down system and found out it had in fact malfunctioned and they already had maintenance tearing it apart to try and figure out what went wrong with it. Besides the fact it was twenty years past it’s prime. He also checked on the other patients and staff, the routines for the day resumed as normal and the patients all seemed back to their usual selves as their routines were fixed. He also spoke to the security and learned that Chris was called in four hours early to help deal with Miles. And after a brief conversation with Dr. Trager, he learned the whole cause of the situation was a panicked misunderstanding and episode from the other patient. He was pleased to hear that Chris had helped resolve the problem at least until Dr. Trager could sedate Miles and fix his broken hand. Which included several pins and stitches with a cast on top of it.

 

By the time Dr. Gluskin returned to his own patient, he found Waylon was done in his journal and had set it aside on the bedside table. He curled up in the blankets and was fast asleep. The pillow tucked up against his chest with the remnants of tear stains as if he had been crying. Eddie felt bad that it had transpired that way but he couldn’t always be there when Waylon needed him. He could only hope he found comfort in the journal. Speaking of, he picked it up and opened it to the most recent page and froze. The page was splattered in tear stains, causing the paper to become distorted by the drying droplets. The entire page was the same thing over and over again in ink. Then one new phrase in big thick black letters.

 

 

 

_Date: **xx-xx-xxxx** _

I want to go home. I want to go home. I want to go home. I want to go home. I want to go home. I want to go home. I want to go home. I want to go home. I want to go home. I want to go home. I want to go home. I want to go home. I want to go home. I want to go home. I want to go home. I want to go home. I want to go home. I want to go home. I want to go home. I want to go home. I want to go home. I want to go home. I want to go home. I want to go home. I want to go home. I want to go home. I want to go home. I want to go home. I want to go home. I want to go home. I want to go home. I want to go home. I want to go home. I want to go home. I want to go home. I want to go home. I want to go home. I want to go home. I want to go home. I want to go home. I want to go home. I want to go home. I want to go home. I want to go home. I want to go home. I want to go home. I want to go home. I want to go home. I want to go home. I want to go home. I want to go home.

  
  
**HOME DOES NOT EXIST** **!**


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